The Art of Teasing - Chapter 88

Chapter 88

The courtyard was no longer the empty, desolate scene it had been when she first moved out of the Old Family Mansion. Bright sunlight fell upon the twisted-dragon shapes of the green pine bonsai, lending them a sense of rugged, vigorous strength. The steps, the covered corridors, and the courtyard, dotted with potted plants, now appeared lush and verdant, carrying an air of flourishing prosperity.

The broken and shattered eave tiles at the corners had been replaced. The beams, pillars, and eaves had all been freshly painted.

Back when she had brought Ye Ling to see the property and was introducing the house, she had mentioned the necessary repairs. She hadn't expected Ye Ling to remember every word. The mansion had been renovated inside and out by Ye Ling, yet the original sections had been meticulously preserved. From the materials to the craftsmanship, it was clear Ye Ling had sought out the very same old master artisans she had originally recommended.

Selling a house—selling it to a buyer like Ye Ling, who understood how to cherish and care for it—was a kind of solace.

She stepped into the main hall. What met her eyes was a complete set of Ming and Qing dynasty-style vintage furniture. From the long table, tea table, and grand armchairs in the center, to the antique display shelves beside them, and the tea table and stools arranged in the tea room on the other side—judging by the materials, style, carvings, and craftsmanship, it was clearly all from the same collection. The perfectly harmonious arrangement made it obvious this set had been specially commissioned.

Her family's original furniture—everything that could be sold had been sold. When she moved out, the entire guest hall had been stripped bare except for the plaque hanging above, inscribed with the three characters "Hall of Clear Breeze." The plaque was still there now, its color unchanged, but the spots of mottling and cracks were gone. It had clearly undergone conservation. To have restored and preserved a plaque so impeccably, only one person in this city could have done it—the specialist in ancient plaque restoration at the Provincial Museum.

Wen Zhengyu's gaze lingered on the plaque for several long seconds. Then she asked Ye Ling, "The furniture in the guest hall—are you planning to move it out or sell it?"

Ye Ling's expression was indifferent. "When I bought the place originally, I bought everything in the house. Now that I'm selling, naturally, everything goes together."

Wen Zhengyu felt a flicker of surprise, then understood. This was never a normal transaction; it carried the undertone of repaying a favor.

Whether it was due to Ye Ling's cold attitude or the sense that the house was merely a favor being returned, Wen Zhengyu felt a blockage in her chest, an aching discomfort. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was taking advantage of Ye Ling. Yet she also couldn't ask Ye Ling to remove all the things she had added later. And "added" was an understatement—Ye Ling had renovated the entire mansion inside and out. Restoring a grand residence like this would have cost far more than the set of furniture in the guest hall.

There truly was no need to inspect the property handover, but Wen Zhengyu couldn't bring herself to say they could skip it. She followed Ye Ling from courtyard to courtyard.

After touring the guest hall, they went straight to the rear, arriving at the main courtyard where the head of the household resided.

The small parlor and bedroom in the main courtyard were fully furnished, down to the last piece. One could move in immediately, just adding daily living necessities. From all visible signs, no one had lived in this room since the renovation and furnishing; everything was still brand new.

She finished touring the main courtyard and noticed that the small courtyard to the left—the one that had been perpetually locked—was now open. It was immaculately clean, utterly spotless, as if it had just been swept. She stood outside the courtyard, staring blankly at the ground inside.

Seeing Wen Zhengyu frozen in the doorway, Ye Ling said, "When the house was being renovated, I noticed this courtyard had extensive damage in many places. The door lock was covered in verdigris, as if no one had lived here for a long time." Based on the distribution of the residence, this courtyard logically should have belonged to Wen Shiyi. Yet it had been locked up. Of all the courtyards in the house, this one had been the most dilapidated.

Wen Zhengyu stepped into the courtyard. She didn't enter the house, only stood in the middle of the open space, her thoughts inevitably drifting. She turned back and saw Ye Ling looking at her with faint puzzlement. She offered an explanation: "My mother… it happened here."

Ye Ling had already guessed that something had happened in this courtyard, but she hadn't imagined it was connected to Lian Huaijin's death.

She actually very much didn't want to bother with Wen Zhengyu, yet she was intensely curious about Wen Zhengyu's story. At the very least, for a child, a mother's death would leave an indelible scar on her upbringing. But this wasn't something she could easily probe into. At least, as Wen Zhengyu had said, their relationship hadn't reached that level. Ye Ling could see that Wen Zhengyu was deeply distressed. Her eyes darted around, and the rims were faintly reddened.

Wen Zhengyu swept her gaze around the surroundings, then silently exited the courtyard and continued toward the rear.

The small courtyard behind this one was her own.

She had only taken a few steps when she heard the sound of a door closing behind her. Turning back, she saw Ye Ling pulling the door shut.

Ye Ling said to her, "Since it was locked, let it remain locked."

Wen Zhengyu looked at the courtyard gate. "It was locked because Wen Shiyi had a guilty conscience. He killed my mother. He was seeing another woman, fighting with my mom. My mom was nine months pregnant. She fell in the courtyard. He knew she had fallen, and he still turned and walked away without looking back. By the time my mom was sent to the hospital, she was already gone. The doctor cut open her belly and pulled me out." The more she grew, the more she resembled her mother. At night, if she stood at this courtyard gate, even Wen Shiyi passing by would be startled.

Ye Ling stared at Wen Zhengyu in shock. No wonder! No wonder Lian Huaixin had moved against Wen Shiyi. No wonder Wen Zhengyu had been utterly indifferent when they drove Wen Shiyi to flee. No wonder Wen Zhengyu almost never mentioned Wen Shiyi.

Wen Zhengyu gazed at the small courtyard gate, lost in thought for a few seconds. Then she added flatly, "He won't be coming back."

Hearing the drifting, ethereal tone in Wen Zhengyu's voice, Ye Ling suddenly realized that this young miss was by no means a person without a temper. She dared say that if Wen Shiyi ever did return, Wen Zhengyu would absolutely not let him off. Not just because of Lian Huaijin's death, but also because of all the things Wen Shiyi had done.

Ye Ling wanted to tell Wen Zhengyu to let the past be past, but she couldn't bring herself to say it. Some things never truly pass.

She was also surprised that Wen Zhengyu would share such an intimate family secret with her. She asked Wen Zhengyu, "Why are you telling me this?"

Wen Zhengyu answered softly, "Perhaps because you're the one who helped avenge my mother." With that, she continued walking toward her own small courtyard.

Ye Ling's mood lifted considerably. That reason—she didn't believe it for a second. She had merely collaborated with the Lian family to handle business and earn money from Wen Shiyi. Wen Zhengyu should be well aware of that.

Pushing down the emotions in her chest, Wen Zhengyu stepped into the small courtyard where she had once lived.

The courtyard was immaculately tidy. Beneath the eaves, several pots of osmanthus bonsai had been placed, filling the yard with their fragrance.

She walked toward the main house, but after a couple of steps, remembering Ye Ling behind her, she paused briefly. Instinctively, she felt it wasn't quite proper to lead someone into her bedroom. Then she reconsidered: she hadn't moved in yet, so this room couldn't be considered her private living quarters. And since the house hadn't been officially handed over yet, it wasn't truly her house either. So she continued inside.

Her courtyard was quite small. Stepping through the gate, one encountered two small side rooms. In old times, these two rooms by the entrance would have been for servants; she had converted them into storage rooms. Last year, scrambling to pool money for debt repayment, she had sold everything in those storage rooms down to the last item. Now, the windows of the storage room nearest the gate stood open. Inside, an Arhat bed and other furniture had been arranged to create a lounge, complete with potted plants and decorative ornaments, exuding a rather refined air. The inner storage room remained empty, but it was spotlessly clean, without a speck of dust.

Wen Zhengyu suspected that Ye Ling had sent someone to clean just before her arrival.

She inspected the two side rooms and then headed toward the master quarters. Stepping through the main door, she entered the central hall, where guest reception chairs and tables had been arranged…

She froze at the sight of these tables, chairs, and tea stands.

Things she had used for over twenty years—the color, the grain, the marks left over time—she could recognize them at a single glance. Not just the tables and chairs, but even the screen she had sold now stood once again in its original position. She walked toward the bedroom. The furniture she had sold had all reappeared in their original places. The room now also contained an additional zither stand and a guzheng.

A fifteen-string Hangzhou zither, bearing the aged patina of years gone by.

Her zither. The zither her grandmother had passed down to her.

Wen Zhengyu walked over. Her fingertips brushed lightly across the strings. The familiar resonance slipped past her ears—a timbre no new zither could replicate. Her fingers rested on the instrument as her gaze swept over the room: the Babu Canopy Bed, the Arhat bed, the dressing table, the storage cabinet, the tea table and chairs, the flower stools.

These items, once sold, would typically scatter far and wide. To buy them back would require tracking them down one by one—an undertaking of immense effort, at prices that would bear no resemblance to what they'd been sold for.

These were all part of the dowry her grandmother had left behind.

She had sold it all.

And Ye Ling had bought it all back for her.

Wen Zhengyu's gaze traveled over these objects, back and forth. An indescribable emotion surged and swelled within her chest, refusing to subside for a long moment. She didn't even know what to say to Ye Ling.

Ye Ling's gaze lingered for a long while on Wen Zhengyu's slender fingertips resting upon the zither strings. She had heard Wen Zhengyu play the zither before—at the studio. Wen Zhengyu always played alone in her office. Ye Ling had listened many times, but never once seen it. She asked, "Play a piece?"

Wen Zhengyu glanced back at Ye Ling. Seeing that Ye Ling seemed genuinely interested, she hesitated briefly, then nodded gently. She sat down and asked, "What would you like to hear?"

Ye Ling said, "I don't know much about the guzheng. I've only heard you play and thought it sounded beautiful."

Wen Zhengyu paused for two seconds, then played "Silver River, Blue Waves." Her mind was unsettled; her playing was somewhat disordered. After the opening notes, her thoughts drifted with the melody, drifting and circling back to Ye Ling. Fortunately, she knew the piece by heart and didn't misplay a note or lose the rhythm.

Most of the time, she played the zither alone. When her grandmother was still alive, there had been someone to offer guidance from the side. But her grandmother had passed away many years ago. All these years, whenever she played, she had been alone—playing alone, playing for herself.

Ye Ling sat down on a nearby chair and gazed at Wen Zhengyu, whose fingers were caressing the strings.

That slender silhouette, the waist-length hair, the disposition of ancient elegance and detachment—it tugged at the heartstrings as surely as the zither's resonance itself.

Wen Zhengyu's temperament could sometimes make one grind their teeth in frustration, could make one's molars itch. Yet it also made it impossible to let go, impossible to release, always wanting to draw just a little closer.

The music ceased. Ye Ling roused from her thoughts. The anger in her chest had dissipated by more than half. She had long known what kind of character Wen Zhengyu possessed—being angry was pointless. Just look at the paintings Wen Zhengyu created: the Nine-Tailed Fox dies before the Little Sprite, and the Little Sprite simply watches quietly, then later buries the Nine-Tailed Fox. Ye Ling didn't want to end up buried. This resentment—she had to let it go whether she wanted to or not. Otherwise, the only one stifled to death would be herself. There was plenty of time ahead; ample opportunity to settle accounts.

Get instant access to all chapters now.

Previous Table of Contents Next